


Imagine You're Pregnant… for Three Years.

by imagineyourepregnant



Category: Original Work
Genre: Birth Fetish, Fpreg, Hyperpregnancy, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mpreg, Pregnancy, Pregnancy Kink, labor fetish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 09:42:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17201162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imagineyourepregnant/pseuds/imagineyourepregnant





	Imagine You're Pregnant… for Three Years.

REQUEST  
(Filling specific request: A woman /or man pregnant for three or four years and ending up giving birth to a toddler…( idea from the abcs of death 2)) Warning: death depending on interpretation, blood, body horror, etc.

FILL  
You’ve been planning on making a family for some time, excited to experience pregnancy and excited to make a big family with your husband. The two of you, you and your husband, even bought a large plot of land in the country so that you could build a house of your own, with as many rooms as you needed to accommodate the children you want to have.

Of course, a plan like that takes money. You stay home while he works, frequently traveling for business, but he makes enough to support all of your dreams and so you never complain.

When you found out you were pregnant, you were ecstatic. You made plans for a home birth, you decorated the new nursery and filled it with clothes as your belly swelled with life, and the both of you chose a name for the child, one for each gender.

The only concern you ever had was that you could go into labor without him there. He traveled so often… He assured you that he’d do his best to take time off and make sure he’d be there. He promised.

And he broke that promise.

“It’s unavoidable,” he said as he slipped on his coat that night. He pressed a sweet kiss to your belly and another to your forehead as he said his farewells, promising, “I’ll be back in a week. That’s before your due date. You’ll be okay.” But, just in case you went into labor early, he gave you a jar of pills that were supposed to delay labor.

The day that he was supposed to come back, you took a pill. Contractions were tearing through you, your child low on your hips and your body begging to be free of that weight, but you couldn’t without him. You waited and waited by the door, huffing and puffing through every harsh stab of pain, calling his phone again and again until your phone died in your hand, but he didn’t come and so you took a pill to make it stop.

You told yourself he was just running late. Maybe he was stuck in the airport and hadn’t called. Maybe he was stuck in traffic in the city. Maybe his phone was dead. Maybe he was just a few minutes away and you were worried for nothing. In any case, you took the pill. It couldn’t hurt and you had to do it before your water broke.

As soon as it took effect, the contractions died off and you were once more at peace. You rubbed your hand over your large stomach, whispering sweet nothings and reassurances to the child inside, and looked out the window, waiting…

Waiting…

Waiting…

It’s been three years.

Online shopping is a blessing. They deliver right to your house whatever you need. You do all of your shopping that way. New clothes and food and books and all that you need can be delivered right to your doorstep.

Pills can be delivered to your house too.

When the contractions start again, you’re used to it. They’re powerful,demanding, and your frail form rolls over on the bed in pain as you rub your massive belly, and you coo as the lengthened limbs within you stretch impatiently in their confined space, pressing against your organs in the worst way.

“Not yet. Not yet. He’s not here and I can’t do it without him. He promised he’d be here. He’s coming back. You’ll see, baby. You’ll see.”

The child in your belly—hardly a baby anymore—calms down after you hastily swallow another pill that empties the bottle. Another one is on its way and a dose can sometimes last you a full day or two, so you don’t worry.

The contractions halt for the hundredth time and you struggle to push yourself up, grunting as the weight at your front makes you hunch. Your belly is long past any hope of not having stretch marks. No amount of cocoa butters and scar removal creams can fix the fact that you’re carrying a toddler inside of you. 

Your belly sits low, so low you must walk with your legs farther apart, making you waddle with every slow step, and you place a hand under your enormous mass for support as you make your way to the front door to get your usual delivery—only it isn’t there.

You look around the side of the house and, though it takes all of your energy to do so, you make your way slowly down the long driveway to the mailbox too—but there’s nothing waiting for you. You don’t understand. Where could it be?

You waddle back to your house and you sit down on the couch with your laptop precariously balanced on your belly that rests on the couch between your legs. You go to the website and check on your orders… but you find an alert instead.

Insufficient funds.

Heart racing, heave yourself up again to grab your purse. You find a credit card and enter it in as an alternative payment on the laptop… but it’s under your husband’s name and it’s long expired. The child inside of you twists and turns with movement, stirring in its neverending impatience, and you groan painfully, rubbing and sweet-talking it back to rest as you try to think…

You grab for the phone next to you, thinking you should call the bank to inquire or else order a new credit card for yourself, but it isn’t working. You don’t even get a dial tone when you pick it up. A perfect footprint only a bit smaller than your hand presses against the walls of your extended belly, your skin stretched so thin that you can see each of the toes defined clearly beneath, and kicks—the laptop falls off.

You scream out loud, heaving yourself off the couch and onto the floor as if you could put the laptop back together in working condition yourself, but no amount of shoving broken plastic bits into place again works. There’s no household tape that can fix the shattered screen and no way for you to understand where each piece is supposed to go. It’s gone.

Broken laptop in hand, you realize you have no money, no phone, no computer, you’re at least fifty miles from the nearest town, … and, perhaps most importantly, you’re out of pills.

There’s a sharp pressure to your pelvis and you grit your teeth as you shove the shattered laptop away, tears pricking at your eyes, and you lay on your back on the floor as pain shoots up your spine. You reach below your belly to find the offending foot and encourage it to move away with sweet words and gentle touches, but it remains, a steady pressure on your three-years-weakened hips.

“Patience, baby,” you beg as you rub and coo and cry as you stare at the white ceiling that needed repainting four years ago. “He’s not back yet. Just a little longer. Can you do that for mommy?” For a time, the child inside of you calms again the pressure lessening, but the foot never leaves its place.

You roll onto your side to lessen the strain on your back, but it hardly helps… and you know that even this peace won’t last.

It’s coming.

The contractions come back in the middle of the night, fierce and determined and, for the first time in years, unhindered. You scream as your belly shudders and tightens, your skin shining with sweat where it shows from beneath your long-torn and far too small maternity shirt. Your hair is matted with sweat as you cross your legs and your nails claw painfully into the hardwood floor at your sides, as determined to keep the child inside as it is to get out—but you can’t last forever.

You scream when your water breaks, shaking your head in denial as the child’s head lodges itself firmly into your birthing canal… and can move no further. There’s no way it’ll fit! The bridge of your hips is like jello and, yet, there’s still no space for the child’s head to pass through. You’re not built to give birth to a child so large.

You huff and puff, keeping your legs crossed and screaming out your pain with every hard contraction that only succeeds in pressing the child more insistently upon your pelvis—and then it snaps. The bone breaks and you’re in too much shock to breathe, the pain crippling so much that your legs even fall limp as a pool of blood gathers under your thighs. Your jaw simply hangs loose as you stare at your off-white ceiling, certain you’re about to die, darkness blooming on your periphery.

Small hands and feet from within you wiggle and push for themselves and the child surges forward and crowns, dragging out another long scream from your lungs just when you thought it wasn’t possible for you to scream any louder. Again, it moves on its own and your body tears to accommodate the size. When the head comes out, it’s bigger than your thigh. The child squirms and kicks, uncaring of what it hurts in its climb to freedom, striking your bladder, your spine, and your ribs in the process, every new break and twinge of pain like a shot of adrenaline to your heart to keep you regrettably awake in the horror as your body is ripped apart.

It’s stuck at the shoulders, but not for long. A hand pushes its way out first instead, then the full arm, and your child grabs a hold of your leg with a small, bloody and pulls with the little muscle it has, dragging itself out of your limp, bleeding body in a flood of fluids until it’s lying on the floor, sprawled out and trembling in the cold between your lifeless legs, and you can finally fall into blessed unconsciousness.


End file.
